


Sometimes John closes his eyes

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Gen, Inspired by Art, Post Reichenbach, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and when reality falls away, dreams stand beside him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes John closes his eyes

**Author's Note:**

> A very short little ficlet inspired Twoheartdetective's [lovely art](http://twoheartdetective.tumblr.com/post/47520820731/oh-goodness-what-is-this-lighting-at-first-it) for the [Let's Draw Sherlock](http://letsdrawsherlock.tumblr.com/) project on Tumblr. I really couldn't help myself, and luckily, Two didn't seem to mind. :) Much thanks to earlgreytea68 for giving it a quick once-over, to reapersun for instigating the project, and to twoheartdetective for unwittingly being my muse.

Sometimes John closes his eyes. In the middle of a busy day at the clinic, while he’s riding on the Tube, or walking in the park, or somewhere along Baker Street after dark. The lights and the noise of the traffic and the pedestrians fade into the distance. The cold biting his skin is less sharp and the smell of London less pungent, when his eyes are closed. He’s alone, solitary in his own bubble. He’ll stand and just breathe, London somehow a dim reality, the ebb and flow of people passing by, never quite touching him.

And sometimes, he senses someone standing nearby. If John were to reach out, he might close his fingers around another man’s wrist, feel the pulse beating under his skin. John can hear him breathing, can feel the rustle of fabric against his hair, the catch in a familiar throat. 

Not Sherlock. It’s a trick of the memory. But with eyes closed, it’s easy to pretend.

John breathes in deep, exhales slowly, and opens his eyes as if waking from a dream. London rushes back into focus, the cars roaring past on Baker Street, the people talking about nonsense, the blinking lights and the squealing of brakes and sirens. The smell of the chicken take-out on the corner, the cold biting his cheeks again. 

For a little while, despite being alone, John isn’t quite so lonely. He heads home, and merges himself into London again.


End file.
